


The Cottage

by pied_pollo



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Case Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: The team is called to Shawnee, Kansas, to investigate a string of unusual child abductions and murders committed by an UnSub who sees themselves as a parental figure for abandoned chilren.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

The time is 8:45 PM. In a small neighborhood on the edge of Shawnee, Kansas, the lights are flickering out as families retire to their bedrooms and bid each other goodnight. The last of the children playing outside come in, carrying their balls and toys. It’s a warm night, a still night. The only sounds come from the chirp of crickets and the soft hush of wind brushing the trees. It is absolutely quiet. That is, until:

“I said _git_!”

In the furthest house on the street, the lights snap on. There’s shouting, muffled by the walls until the commotion makes its way outside. A tall man with a wide-brimmed hat shoves a little boy out the door, pointing an accusatory finger.

“What do you think ‘yer doing, boy?” he snaps, gripping onto a glass beer bottle. The man is clearly drunk, and the boy is very, very frightened.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” the child shrieks, curling into himself. He’s about eight years old and sporting a nasty bruise on one cheek. “Please, stop!” Tears spill out of his eyes and onto the ground.

“‘Sorry’ don’t fix the damn television!” the older man slurs. When the boy only whimpers, he throws the bottle. It hits the pavement with a _SMASH_ that sends glass skittering in all directions. The boy screams and scoots back, scraping his elbows when he slips. He is able to get to his feet and make a break for the woods.

“That’s right, sissy!” the man hollers as he watches the boy run. “Don’t you come back!”

The boy sprints through the woods until he’s tired, then slides down the trunk of the nearest tree, sobbing. He snivels and runs his knuckles under his nose, feeling utterly miserable.

In the distance, he hears a car. The boy covers his face in his hands, listening to the engine sputter to a stop in front of him. A motherly-looking woman leans out the window of her dark minivan. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” the boy mumbles without looking up. He shuffles his feet in the dirt.

“I saw what happened,” the woman murmurs sympathetically. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I don't wanna go home,” the boy sniffs.

“Aw, that’s fair. Say, why don’t you come home with me? I’ll clean you up, get you some cocoa?”

“I’m okay, ma’am.”

“Really, there’s no trouble. I have a son just your age; _I’d_ want to know he was being taken care of.”

The boy thinks for a moment, and then looks up. The woman has short, dark hair tied messily into a bun. She looks old, but not _too_ old--more like his mom’s age. There are visible wrinkles by her mouth, which curls into a welcoming smile. She looks nice.

“Well, sure, I guess,” the boy says slowly, standing up and dusting off his pants. The woman smiles bigger, then leans over to open the passenger car door.

“Hop on in, then.”

The car veers back onto the street, passing the boy’s house, where inside, the drunk old man has lumbered onto the couch. He lounges there, half-asleep, until the door opens and a woman creeps through the doors. She scans the room, spots the man on her couch, and walks over, touching his shoulder. “Hey, Joseph.”

“Hmm?”

“How was he?”

Joseph tilts his head back to look at her. “Rotten.”

The woman clicks her tongue in exasperation. “Were you mean to him again?” 

When Joseph gives no response, she puts her hand on her hip. “Joseph! He’s your nephew.”

“He’s a shit.”

The woman tsks, then exits the room. She walks up the stairs, and looks into the bedrooms. There’s no sign of her son. “Matthew?” she calls quietly.

Nothing.

She looks in the bathroom. No Matthew. A sweep downstairs reveals he isn’t there, either.

The woman starts to panic. She sprints back into the kitchen, where Joseph has fallen asleep. She shakes him awake. “Where’s Matthew?”

“What? _What_ , Liz?”

“ _Where’s Matthew_?” Liz is frantic now.

“Dunno,” Joseph slurs, turning over. “Last I saw him, he was dicking around in his room.”

“Well, he’s not there.”

“Then I’ve got no clue. I’m damn drunk, pretty sure I’ve been on this couch all night.”

Liz gives up and paces, biting her nails and running a hand through her hair. Did he run off? Did he sleep in a neighbor’s house?

It’s then that she notices the open door.

Glass glitters on the sidewalk under the porchlight. It crunches under Liz’s shoes as she runs--to the neighbors’ house, to the backyard, to the street. She’s gasping for breath by the time she makes it back home, and tears are falling down her face. Joseph is silhouetted in the doorway.

“Dammit, Liz, you’re wakin’ everyone!” he shouts.

Liz doesn’t care. Maybe if she wakes everyone up, someone will help find her son. “I can’t find him!”

“Prolly at someone’s house.”

“No. No, he’d call me,” Liz whimpers, even though Joseph has already stumbled drunkenly back inside. Out of options, Liz pulls out her phone and dials 911.

The time is 10:15 PM. Surprisingly, no one has awoken to the racket. The lights in the houses are still off. The crickets have quieted. The only sounds in town are the frantic voice of a scared mother and the distant rumble of a dark minivan that long since drove away.


	2. Chapter 2

JJ loves her son, she swears she does. And she has a great husband. But sometimes, she wants to strangle them.

Like today.

In JJ’s defense, it was her day off. She planned to sleep in while Will took Henry to work, and then she would get up and make both of them breakfast before Will left for the station. It was a flawless plan. Right?

Wrong.

While JJ was enjoying the feeling of ignoring her family for a moment, Will was whispering from the other room. She could hear him shushing a giggling Henry. In a vain attempt to fall back asleep, JJ wriggled under the still-warm covers and waited for the inevitable. Surely enough, something not so soft landed heavily on the other side of the bed with a screech of joy.

“Henry!” she moaned in exasperation. Henry laughed maniacally, and ran to the doorway where Will stood trying to stifle his laughter.

“You two,” JJ scolded, climbing out of bed, “are going to be the death of me! Henry needs to be at school soon,” she added to Will, “and you _know_ it’s my day off!”

“Henry just wanted to say ‘bye to his mama before we left,” he insisted sheepishly.

Henry giggled and wrapped his arms around his father’s torso. They both looked like they just got caught with their hands in the cookie jar. It was impossible to stay made at those faces; JJ softened and held her arms out to her son, who flew into the embrace with a squeal.

The phone buzzed.

There are no words necessary; they both knew the telltale sign of another case. So much for a day off. Will’s mouth tugged in a sympathetic line.

“Call me when you take off.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and she wrapped her arms around him before he left the house with Henry in tow. In the solace of her empty bedroom, JJ allowed herself to curse before grabbing her bag.

* * *

“I know most of you guys aren’t supposed to work today,” Garcia grimaced as she rushed into the conference room with her laptop. “and I am _super_ sorry, but click your ruby-red heels, crime-fighters, because Kansas needs our help.” She clicked on her keyboard and the pictures of four boys and three girls appeared on the large screen fixed to the wall.

“In the past three months, _seven_ children have been snatched from the town of Shawnee. The ones found dead are Sarah Weber and Max Thatcher, and this is where it gets weird, everyone.”

The photos changed. Rossi gave a low whistle, and Emily squinted at the screen. “Is that...candy?”

“Indeed,” Garcia confirmed, “shoved down their throats.”

Morgan flipped through the file. “Bodies are covered,” he commented, “that’s a sign of remorse.”

“No evidence of sexual assault,” Hotch added. “What was the cause of death?”

“Yeah, like I said,” Garcia replied with a cringe, “candy. Down the throat. It’s being run for DNA as we speak.”

“Dean Corll's family owned a candy business,” Reid mentioned thoughtfully, then paused. “He didn’t use it in his murders, though.”

“Wait,” JJ gestured to the screen, “there are only two photos here. Where are the other kids?”

“No sign of them,” Garcia sighed. “These were the only bodies found.”

“We may not be looking at connected cases,” Rossi remarked.

“Well, Shawnee PD isn’t sure, because prior to now, each child had been taken two weeks apart. They’re assuming the worst.”

“‘Prior to now’?” Emily echoed.

“The abductions have been escalating,” Garcia focused on one of the original photos. “Meet Matthew Park, last seen two days ago.”

“Well, we have to assume Matthew and the other children are alive,” Hotch pointed out, “but if this UnSub keeps escalating, another child could be taken soon. Wheels up in 30.”

* * *

“Come in, dear,” the woman opened the door and ushered Matthew inside. It wasn’t exactly a house, more like a cottage--small and quaint, with smoke billowing out of the chimney and iron-looking padlocks on the doors. In the front room, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Matthew felt as though he had stumbled into a fairy tale.

“Sit down,” the woman instructed, “and I’ll get us something hot to drink.” She pulled a chair out from the small wooden table in the center of the room and left, presumably to the kitchen. When the woman returned, she bore two steaming mugs and a damp washcloth. She set the mugs on the table and scooted closer to Matthew. He leaned in, and she dabbed at his face with the towel. “Who was that man?”

“My uncle Joe,” Matthew mumbled, enjoying the coolness on his face. “He doesn’t like me much.”

“I can tell. What about your mom?”

“She goes to school at night. Joe drinks when she's gone,” Matthew admitted tearfully.

The woman stopped, her expression hardening. The house suddenly seemed very quiet, and quite cold. Matthew shivered. The woman placed the washcloth on the table.

“Well, that’s just not right,” she said after a moment, very slowly.

Matthew had the feeling that something wasn’t right, so he got out of his chair. “You can take me home now,” he ventured.

The woman didn’t move. Instead, her mouth twisted into a scowl.

This was getting scary. “I wanna go home, please,” Matthew continued. “My mommy will worry.”

“Your _mommy_ ,” the woman growled, “is a rotten woman for leaving you with that man.”

“What? No, no, she's not rotten, ma'am. Mommy loves me,” Matthew insisted.

The woman didn’t hear him. She bent down so that she was eye-level to Matthew, whose breathing picked up. Tears sprung to his eyes. He inched backwards, but the woman moved with him, and soon Matthew’s back was pressed up against the wall. He could feel the heat of the woman’s breath. It smelled like mint.

Matthew shrieked as the woman grabbed him by the shoulders roughly. Her nails dug into his skin, and before Matthew knew what was happening, she pulled him close and squeezed.

Woman and child were locked in a nightmarish hug. Matthew was screaming, crying, flailing his arms, but the woman only held on tighter, burrowing his face in her shoulder and kissing the top of his head.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, dear,” she soothed, “You’re safe with me. I’ll take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well, if it isn't the dawning realization that I changed from present to past tense.


	3. Chapter 3

“What do you think he’s done to the other children?” Emily mused as they debriefed on the plane.

“That is, if it's even the same abductor,” JJ sighed, shaking her head.

“Still, it’s been almost two months since the first child went missing,” Hotch murmured, “so Shawnee PD probably isn’t very optimistic about what happened to them.”

“Well, let’s assume it’s the same Unsub,” Morgan flipped through his file, “it seems like he certainly has _some_ sort of type: blond haired, caucasian. All the children are ages 7-10.”

“Did the genders switch with each kidnapping?” Emily asked. “Boy, girl, boy, girl?”

“ _Negative on that,_ ” An electronic voice garbled from Hotch’s laptop. Garcia’s image appeared on the screen. “ _It was boy, girl, girl, boy, boy, girl, boy._ ”

“The only bodies found were the first children abducted--Sarah and Max,” Reid remembered. “It looks like there are two cases--the UnSub who’s killing the children, and then a completely different offender--a serial kidnapper.”

“It would be a big coincidence for two UnSubs with the same type to be operating alone in such a small comfort zone,” Rossi remarked. “Maybe the UnSub just found a better way to get rid of the bodies?”

The others nodded thoughtfully. Hotch looked out the window, and closed his folder. “When we land, Morgan and Prentiss will check Matthew Park’s neighborhood,” he instructed. “Rossi and Reid, you go to the ME’s office. JJ and I will head to the precinct and talk to the families of the abducted children.”

“ _About that, sir,_ ” Garcia piped up nervously.

“What?”

“ _I_ _t seems that only four of the seven children had known families. Jane Farson is homeless, her parents died and she ran away from foster care. Andrew Reagan is a foster child with a family of--oh, my. Six other children. And Tommy Garrett was adopted._ ”

“Unseal the adoption files,” Hotch ordered. “We still need to know everything to get an accurate victimology.”

* * *

The Shawnee Police Station was bustling. Everywhere, overworked officers were making phone calls and filling out reports. Hotch spotted the sheriff standing by the water cooler, looking beat.

“Sherrif?” JJ called to get his attention. “I’m Agent Jaraeu, we spoke on the phone. This is SSA Hotchner.”

“You’re the folks with the BAU.” The sheriff took JJ’s hand and shook it, then did the same to Hotch. He motioned for them to follow them, and started to stroll through the precinct. “I’m Sheriff Wood, but you can call me Bobby. We’re really glad you guys decided to help--it hasn’t been easy.”

“Kidnappings are always difficult, especially when there’s more than one,” Hotch agreed. “Have you notified the parents yet?”

“They’re here, even the foster ones,” Bobby pointed to a row of benches, where a group of adults sat quietly. “I’ve got a small room in the back here. That's good for you?”

“It’s perfect,” JJ reassured him. “How has the media been?”

“As you’d expect,” the sheriff huffed. “Big news in a small town’s got everyone swarming the place.”

“I’ll handle them,” JJ put a comforting hand on Bobby’s shoulder, who looked relieved. She turned to Hotch. “We should start the interviews.”

Hotch nodded, his mouth set. “I’ll call up the others and tell them to hurry. We’ll need some help getting through all these families.”

* * *

“I’ve been an ME for almost 30 years,” the ME clicked her tongue as she rolled a table over, “but I have never seen anything like this.”

“When do you think these children died?” Rossi tilted his head to look at Sarah Weber’s body.

“Rigor mortis had set in when they found her, so I can guess she was killed about less than a day before the body was found.”

“What about Max Thatcher?” Reid gestured to the other table.

“Ah, yes, roughly the same thing. He was held a _little_ longer, but he died the same way.” The ME held up an evidence bag. “Both choked to death on candy. Some had the wrappers still on. It would have been quite painful. What’s interesting, though,” she added thoughtfully, “is the bruising.”

Reid skimmed the file. “Bruising on the stomach and chest,” he read aloud, his brow furrowed.

The ME nodded and pulled back Max Thatcher’s sheet to display a colorful array of yellow-and-purple bruises on his midsection. “At a guess, the Heimlich maneuver, and when that didn’t work, CPR.”

“These attempts at resuscitation are inconsistent with the posing of the bodies,” Rossi pondered. “It speaks to the UnSub’s disorganization.”

“Or it's part of UnSub’s fantasy,” Reid countered. “He feels powerful because of the control he has over his victims.” He crouched down until his face almost touched Max's. After a moment of inaudible murmuring, Reid stood up straight and turning to the ME. “There aren’t any defensive wounds.”

The ME nodded in confirmation and tapped her clipboard. “That was interesting, because the tox scan showed nothing. It’s almost like the children ate the chandy and choked on it themselves. The only signs of struggle I could see were ligature marks, but only on one wrist. These kids could fight back...they just didn't.”

“Perhaps out of fear,” Rossi suggested. “I’ll relay this to Hotch and Morgan. In the meantime, we should head back to the station.”

* * *

The Park house was isolated from the rest of the street with caution tape, but outside the box, a crowd was gathering. The people of Shawnee twittered amongst themselves, curious as to what was going on. Some of them pulled out their phones, which made Emily wrinkle her nose in disgust. “You’d think they’d have a little more respect,” she remarked dryly. 

Beside her, Morgan looked equally distasteful, but put his hands over his eyes to shield the sun and studied the house. “This house is on the edge of the block.” He turned right, where a field led straight to the woods. “Trees over there. It would be easy to take Matthew in that direction and leave minimal tracks.”

“No sign of a break-in,” Emily observed, making her way to the door. “Either Matthew went willingly or was abducted from the outside.” She moved to the side for the forensic team moving in and out of the house, and something crunched under her foot.

“Morgan, check this out,” she called, waving him over.

“Is that glass?” Morgan asked. He glanced around. “I didn’t see a broken window.”

“That’s being tested at the lab,” one of the forensic techs shouted from inside the house. He poked his head through the open doorway and handed Morgan a clipboard. “We’re thinking it’s a green glass beer bottle.”

Morgan scanned the papers as he followed Emily into the house. “Apparently, no one went outside. The uncle, Joseph, was on the couch, supposedly watching Matthew all night. The mother, Elizabeth, had gone out briefly to night school from 7-10 PM.” He paused, thinking, then wondered aloud: “If Joseph was inside, who threw the bottle? Kids? Or the UnSub?”

“Actually,” Emily replied, “I have an answer to that.” She opened the fridge. Inside, a row of green bottles decorated the shelves.

Morgan pulled out his phone and dialed Garcia. She picked up on the second ring: “ _Speak and ye shall be heard!_ ”

“Hey, Mama, I need you to run a name for me--Joseph Park.”

“ _Anything for you, my sweet._ ” There was the sound of a keyboard on the other end, and then: “ _Joseph Park was born and raised right in Shawnee. He and his sister are the only children of a Mr. and Mrs. Park. The sister, Elizabeth Park,_ _née Sanders, just divorced her abusive husband, Ronald Sanders, a couple months ago, Joseph moved in just after, and--oh, gee. Your man just got out of rehab for severe alcohol abuse.”_

“Thanks, Penelope.”

“ _I live for your praise, my ebony Adonis!”_

A click on the line. Morgan put away his phone and turned to Emily. “I’m pretty sure those bottles belong to Joseph. Was he drinking the night Matthew went missing?”

Emily checked her clipboard, and whistled. “Apparently so. Elizabeth says she came home via the back door, but the front door was wide open.”

“So what, then? Joseph gets blackout-drunk. He’s angry.” Morgan moves to stand by the couch.

“Suddenly, Matthew says or does something,” Emily continued, standing with her back to the front door. “Joseph doesn’t like it, so maybe he starts forward.”

“I’m Joseph,” Morgan declared, walking towards Emily. “I’m shouting, I’m drunk--so drunk I won't remember this later.”

“Matthew tries to run.” Emily moved backwards. “He opens the door, but Joseph has caught up to him.”

Morgan feigns pushing her out the door, and Emily steps over the threshold. Now, she is outside. Morgan raises his fist and brings it down. “Smash.”

The two of them stop roleplaying and stand side-by-side, gazing across the field. “If the UnSub were nearby,” Morgan mused, “he could’ve easily witnessed the commotion and waited until Matthew was alone to take him.”

“It’s not exactly silent, though,” Emily pondered, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Wouldn’t there have been a neighbor, or someone who heard what was going on and tried to intervene?”

“Not if this has happened before,” Morgan replied solemnly.

“Which means Matthew might not have been a victim of opportunity if the UnSub was familiar with Joseph’s antics.”

“We still can’t rule out Ronald Sanders,” Morgan noted, turning back towards the SUV. “Losing custody of your kid’s one hell of a stressor.”

“I’ll call JJ and tell her to bring him in. We can ask what he knows at the station.”


	4. Chapter 4

Liz shifted anxiously in her chair. The sheriff had told her to wait in a small, closed-off room in the police station, and that had been around twenty minutes ago. An officer had already taken her statement back at home. Why was she needed here?

There was a knock at the door. A woman Liz’s age with long, blond hair entered the room, bearing a dark folder. “Ms. Park?”

“Liz, please,” Liz said automatically. “Why am I here?”

“I’m Agent Jareau with the FBI.” the woman sat down in the chair opposite of Liz. “I know you’ve already had your statement taken, and I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I understand how hard this must be for you.”

“That’s alright,” Liz gave her a watery smile. She was trying very hard not to cry. “What is this about?”

* * *

“Mrs. Thatcher?”

Anna Thatcher squirmed in her chair, twisting her necklace absentmindedly. Her eyes flicked to the young man standing awkwardly in the doorway, one foot over the threshold. He closed the door slowly. “Anna? My name is Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“I don’t need a doctor, I’ve got a doctor,” Anna mumbled, hugging herself.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” the man assured her, sitting down in the chair at the other end of the table. “I’m with the FBI.”

“FBI? Did you take my son away?” Anna wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “I’m a good mother. You can’t take him away from me.”

“We didn’t take your son, Anna,” the doctor-not-that-doctor said gently, opening a manilla folder and placing it on the table. “He...he died, remember?”

Silence. When Anna spoke again, her words came out slow and detached. “You looking for who killed Max?”

“Yeah,” the doctor-not-that-doctor gave a little nod. “But first, I’m going to ask you some questions about him. Is that okay?”

Anna hesitated, then looked him in the eye. He smiled, and she relaxed a bit. “Okay.”

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Weber sat on the small couch in the back room. They were directed here by the sheriff, and they already knew it was about Sarah. Many parents would have fallen apart in this situation, but the Webers are gripping each other’s arms tightly. Mrs. Weber presses her head against her husband’s.

They stayed locked like this until a middle-aged man opened the door. He gave them a small smile. “My name is Agent Rossi.”

“Agent?” Mr. Weber echoed in confusion. “What’s the FBI got to do with our Sarah?”

Agent Rossi pulled the chair closer. “We think that the man who killed Sarah might have taken some other children.”

“There are more kids?” Mrs. Weber let out a shuddering breath.

Agent Rossi nodded solemnly. “I’m going to ask you questions about Sarah. Knowing everything we can about who she was will really help aid our investigation.”

Mrs. Weber burst into tears. “No, no, I can’t do it,” she sobbed, turning into her husband and burying her face in his shoulder. Mr. Weber wrapped his arms around her, making eye contact with Agent Rossi.

“What do you need to know?”

* * *

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” a man said as he entered the room.

Corinne Johnson straightened in her chair, extending her arm. “It’s no trouble. Anything I can do to help.”

“I’m Agent Hotchner with the FBI.” The man gestured for Corinne to take a seat. “I understand you were the social worker in charge of Jane Farson’s case.”

“That I am,” Corinne sighed. “It’s so sad, all these children going missing.”

Agent Hotchner nodded, then opened a folder. “Would you mind telling me about Jane?”

* * *

The team and Bobby stood around the table, listening to Garcia’s background checks. “ _Clean, clean, it’s all clean so far_ ,” Garcia’s voice confirmed from the phone. “ _Everyone so far has no hanky-panky child-snatching alarms in my system._ _Except, of course, for your Ronald Sanders, Liz’s abusive ex-husband._ ”

“There’s an APB out for him, but so far no one’s seen him,” Bobby announced.

“Well, we’ve still got the Garrets, Andersons, and Reagans left,” Hotch noted. “Anything on them?”

“ _Making love to the keys as we speak, sir!_ ”

An awkward silence. Bobby’s eyebrows skyrocketed. Morgan closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

“Garcia, you’re on speaker,” he said slowly.

“ _Oh, dear. It’s the sheriff, isn’t it?_ ”

“Mm-hmm.”

“ _Sheriff Wood, sir, I apologize._ ”

“It’s...no big deal.” Bobby glanced at Rossi, looking very uncomfortable.

“ _Changing the subject! Tommy Garret’s adopted family looks good, parents are clean, and--ooh, boy. The older brother, Brain; he’s got an accusation of aggravated battery, but charges didn’t stick ‘cause he’s a promising athlete and no one wanted that on his record._ ”

“Brian’s probably not the UnSub, but if he showed aggressive behavior to Tommy, it would’ve affected his psyche,” Emily pointed out. “Maybe Tommy’s fear made him an easy target.”

“ _James Anderson is clean,_ ” Garcia went on, “ _his wife died a few years ago…oh. Some not-so-good news: James was in the hospital for a month after an attempted suicide last year. Lila was with her aunt, who’s clean, but my guess is her father didn’t have the best effect on her mental state._ ”

Reid turned towards the whiteboard, dragging aside the map to write a few things underneath each child’s photo. “Look at what everyone has in common,” he prompted as he scribbled. “First we have Max Thatcher, whose mother is a severe paranoid schizophrenic and whose father left the family just before her diagnosis. Then, Sarah Weber. Her parents are clean, but they worked constantly and often left Sarah alone in the home.”

“The Garret’s had a biological son who most likely tormented his adoptive brother,” Rossi continued. “And finally, we have James Anderson’s suicidality.”

“All these children probably felt abandoned at some point,” Emily observed. “Maybe our UnSub sees himself as some sort of parental figure.”

“That doesn’t explain the Reagan family,” Hotch cut in. “Seven adopted kids and the parents are always home. There’s no record of abuse or assault.”

“ _No, but there’s something else that could be considered stressful for Andrew,_ ” Garcia piped up. _“I’ve sent you the link._ ”

Morgan flipped open a laptop and placed it on the table. Everyone gathered to look at what Garcia sent.

It was a video. Morgan hit play.

“ _Welcome to the Reagans! We are Freddie and Paige, a silly pair unlike any other...because of our giant family! Follow us as we navigate through this crazy journey called life. Don’t forget to subscribe!_ ”

“Well, that explains the seven kids,” Rossi remarked dryly.

* * *

“Are you feeling better now?”

Matthew’s head snapped up from where it was tucked under his arms. The woman’s face beamed down at him.

He was currently sitting on a blanket in a very lonely corner of the cottage basement with his knees tucked to his chest and one wrist pinned to the wall by a leather restraint. It didn’t hurt, but it was still bulky and uncomfortable, and Matthew very much wanted to go home. He could see a wooden door just a couple feet away, but no noise came from behind it.

“I asked you how you were, little boy,” the woman repeated.

Matthew sniffled. “I’m better now,” he squeaked, unfolding his legs, “and I’m not a little boy. I’m eight years old.”

“Of course,” the woman nodded in mock understanding. She pulled her hand out, brandishing two red lollipops. “Do you like candy?”

“My mommy said I shouldn’t take candy from strangers.”

“Your mommy doesn’t love you anymore, remember?” The woman grabbed Matthew’s free hand and wrapped his fingers around one lollipop. “Now, here. You can have it.” She stood up and tightened the apron tied around her waist.

“Is the other candy for you?” Matthew asked.

“This is for your sister,” the woman explained. “Don’t be selfish.”

“I don’t have a sister.” Matthew furrowed his brow in confusion.

The woman chuckled, before opening the wooden door and disappearing on the other side. Her voice echoed from the other room. “Don’t lie to an old woman.”

What was going on? Matthew scooted as far as the leash would allow, and tried to crane his head to look into the other room. He was able to see a sliver of the wall and the floor. Matthew tried harder and leaned further into the room.

He came nose-to-nose with a young blond girl. He screamed.

The girl clamped her hand over his mouth, which only made Matthew panic even more.

“Shh! _Shh_! She’ll hear you!” the girl hissed.

Once Matthew quieted, the girl removed her hand. “Where did she go?” Matthew asked.

“She went upstairs, I think,” the girl explained. “She says she likes to read to her son.”

Both of them sat in silence for a moment, unwrapping their lollipops and sucking quietly. Matthew liked strawberry candy, but the lollipop didn’t taste as good as he hoped. Then again, it would probably be hard for any child to enjoy much in these circumstances.

When they had finished, Matthew wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned back to the girl. “I’m Matthew,” he whispered. “What’s your name?”

The girl gave him a small smile. “Lila.”

The children sat in the dark, listening for the moment the woman would return. Neither were aware that she was going to bed and wouldn’t be back until the bed. Neither were aware that she had finished reading to her son and retired to her room.

The room was yellow and, like the rest of the house, maintained the gingerbread-cottage aesthetic. But unlike the rest of the cottage, this room did have gingerbread. A plate of tastefully-decorated cookies adorned the otherwise plain tables. Sticks of rock candy and cake pens littered the desk among the pencils. It was very safe to assume this woman indeed had a sweet tooth.

Instead of going to bed, the woman turned on the news to see a blond woman speaking to the press. On the screen: _FBI Assists Shawnee PD in Missing Children Investigation_.

“We ask whoever is holding these kids to let them go,” the woman announced, looking directly into the camera. “They have families who need to know their children are safe. We understand that--”

The woman switched the television off, and threw the remote against the wall angrily. It bounced off with a _crack_ and landed on the ground, the batteries spinning across the wooden floor.

“They don’t understand,” the woman whispered to herself, storming over to a desk next to the bed and opening the drawer. Still seething, she grabbed a pen from the desk and a sheet of paper from the drawer. When the woman finished scribbling her message, she marched downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a large bag from the counter, and left the house to deliver her letter, which had been sealed in a large package envelope.

Now they would understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took a while! At first, I was going to write all the interviews in their entirety, but it was a lot (and I ended up getting distracted and writing another thing). Hopefully the way I ended up writing this chapter made enough sense!


	5. Chapter 5

“The Reagans confirmed that Andrew wasn’t into the family-vlogger thing,” JJ announced as she strolled back into the conference room.

“I spoke with Tommy Garret’s parents and older brother,” Emily added from where she was sitting at the table. “All three admitted to Tommy being taunted by Brian.”

“So this UnSub probably feels protective of these children,” Hotch concluded.

“He doesn’t have a very large comfort zone,” Reid commented as he stuck another tab on the map. “His range just about covers Shawnee alone. He probably lives here.”

“So now what?” Morgan asked, leaning back in his chair. “The parents are clean. Ronald Sanders is still missing. I hate to say it, but we’ve got nothing.”

“Actually, we’ve got something.” Bobby had appeared in the room, holding a phone to his ear. “Highway Patrol just pulled over a car driven by a man matching Sanders’s description. They’re bringing him in now.”

“Well,” Rossi remarked, getting out of his seat, “let’s see what Ronald has to say.”

* * *

“What am I doing here? I want my lawyer,” Ronald Sanders demanded. He was alone in the interrogation room, which was dark save for a single panel of light overhead. Sanders drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, gritting his teeth.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Bobby asked from behind the glass.

“Not yet,” Hotch murmured, “but we still need to know why he tried to leave Kansas.”

“ _Hello-o_?” Sanders bellowed. “I know you can hear me! Finally,” he huffed as Rossi and JJ entered the room. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

“Mr. Sanders, I’m Agent Rossi with the FBI. This is Agent Jareau.” Rossi took a seat across from Sanders and opened a file.

“FBI? What is this?”

“If you’ll please listen,” Rossi ordered, giving Sanders a pointed look, “we’d like to ask you--”

Suddenly, a trilling noise bounced off the walls and filled the room. JJ dug in her pocket and pulled out a ringing phone. “Hello...Will?” She got out of her chair and moved to stand in the corner of the room, one hand on the phone and the other on her hip.

Meanwhile, Hotch held his phone out to Bobby. The Caller ID said _Jennifer_.

“Are you calling her?” the sheriff asked confusedly. Hotch held a finger to his lips, a silent request for Bobby to listen to the call.

“... _I swear, Will, just get rid of him,_ ” JJ was saying over the line. “ _He’s caused enough trouble._ ”

In the interrogation room, Rossi was watching Sanders closely. His body language stayed the same, and he rolled his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” JJ apologized after hanging up the phone, “that was my husband.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Sanders sneered. JJ nodded.

“My damn son,” she huffed, “he’s a brat. Sometimes I regret having him.”

“You are preaching to the choir, woman,” Sanders hooted, leaning back in his chair.

“You’ve got kids?”

“Naw, not anymore.”

“‘Anymore’?” Rossi interjected. “That’s weird, because here,”--he gestured to the brown file--“This here says you’re the biological father of Matthew Park.”

“His bitch mother got custody,” Sanders growled, “we ain’t married anymore.”

“Ah, I see,” Rossi nodded. “You know, I get where you’re coming from. I had three wives.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, sir.”

Sanders let out a chuckle. “What’d she do when you came back?”

“I’m sorry?” It was Rossi’s turn to be confused.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t,” Sanders accused with a toothy grin, “we all do.”

“You went back to Liz’s house?” Rossi let out a low whistle. “That takes guts.”

“Mm-hmm. She was real mad, but I could tell she secretly liked it. Now,” Sanders straightened in his chair, “What’s the FBI here for?”

“Where’s your son now, Mr. Sanders?” JJ asked.

“You askin’ me? I dunno, and I don’t care,” Sanders grumbled. “Little sissy never gave me nothin’ but trouble--he and his mama both.”

“Okay. That’ll be all, then,” JJ smiled and stood up in her chair. “You’re under arrest.”

“What?” Sanders was aghast.

“You see, Ronald,” Rossi explained, “I did visit my wife again. But unlike you, she didn’t have a restraining order against me.” He tapped the table and opened the door, where an officer walked into the room, brandishing a pair of handcuffs.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say...” 

Rossi and JJ left the room.

“What sort of interview was that?” Bobby exclaimed once the door was closed.

“He’s not our UnSub,” JJ explained. “When I openly expressed disgust for my children, Sanders didn’t react at all.”

“In fact, he did the opposite and empathized with her,” Hotch added. “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

“But he’s one sick guy,” Rossi remarked, looking back in the window.

“Sheriff?” An officer was making her way briskly towards the group. She gestured for them to follow her. “A package arrived for all of you.”

* * *

“Are you sure it’s safe to open?” Morgan asked Reid.

“The envelope’s almost completely flat,” Reid responded, slapping on a pair of gloves. “In fact,” he added thoughtfully, taking the package and feeling around, “there seems to be some sort of dense powder in here.”

He took a letter-opener off the desk and slid it carefully through the tongue of the envelope. Then, he turned the bag upside down and dumped its contents onto the table. Fine white powder spilled from the bag and threw dust into the air.

“That’s going to be a nuisance to clean up,” Emily complained, sneezing.

“I’ll get a sample to the lab,” Bobby offered, leaving the room.

“Is it drugs?” Rossi asked no one in particular.

“No--breadcrumbs,” JJ observed, taking a pinch of the powder and running it through her fingers.

“Guys, look at this.” Reid took a small sheet of paper that landed in the powder. He unfolded it to reveal smudged calligraphy. Reid read aloud:

“ _You don’t understand, you don’t take care of them. I am the witch, not that witch, everyone thought wrong. You don’t deserve her. Now you see what happens when you leave him in my woods. I wanted him back, I have another chance._ ”

“‘You don’t understand, you don’t take care of them’,” Emily repeated, “There’s the protectiveness.”

“‘You don’t deserve _her_ , now you see what happens when you leave _him_ in my woods’,” Hotch went on. “The UnSub uses both ‘her’ and ‘him’. That could mean two children--a boy and a girl.”

“Lila Anderson and Matthew Park, most likely,” Rossi mused.

“The mixed-up use of ‘her’ and ‘him’ also speaks to the UnSub’s disorganization,” Reid commented, “in fact, this entire letter is jumbled like a stream of consciousness.”

“A disorganized UnSub with organized methods? That doesn’t sound right,” JJ remarked.

“Unless whatever delusion he’s suffering from seems so real that the UnSub has started believing it,” Rossi suggested. “It’s become his job to bring his psychosis to life.”

“Actually, I think we could be looking at a female UnSub,” Emily chipped in. “When men write letters, they don’t use this kind of language. They're all about what they're going to do. Women blame people--they feel the need to explain themselves.”

“She also used the word ‘witch’,” Hotch added.

“What did the UnSub use to write this?” JJ asked, taking the letter from Reid. After a moment, she took a sniff of the paper. “Chocolate?”

“Chocolate?” Rossi repeated, taking the paper to inspect it himself.

“Wait a minute!” Reid suddenly sprung out of his chair and hurried to the whiteboard, examining the crime scene photos.

“What is it, kid?” Morgan prompted.

“It all makes sense--the blond boys and girls, the candy, the ‘witch’, the chocolate, the breadcrumbs. I think I know what this is about!”

A pause. Then: “Hansel and Gretel,” JJ breathed.

“Wait, _Hansel and Gretel_?” Emily scoffed. “Like, the fairy tale?”

Reid nodded. “I think so.”

“I’ll find Bobby,” Hotch said. “We need to deliver the profile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting somewhere! The last couple chapters have been pretty slow and filler. I assure you, the investigation is picking up now! Thank you for getting this far.


	6. Chapter 6

“We believe we’re looking for a Caucasian woman in her mid-40s. She’s friendly, but a loner, and most likely works in the baking industry, or somewhere with access to supplies such as flour and chocolate. She won’t be able to hold a job for long, and would most likely be fired because of inappropriate behavior or violent outbursts. Up until recently, we had believed the seven missing children of Shawnee were alive, but unfortunately, based on a letter we received from the UnSub, there is evidence that only two children are left in her possession--most likely Lila Anderson and Matthew Park. As you all know, the only bodies found were that of Sarah Weber and Max Thatcher, so this may mean the UnSub has found a different way to dispose of the bodies.

“Based on victimology, we have learned that this woman sees herself as a guardian. She has abducted children from families she perceives may not love them, or do not take care of them the way she thinks is right. We also believe this may stem from guilt over a recent loss--most likely the death of a child. She believes these children are her chance at redemption, and it is her responsibility to ‘mother’ them. It is possible that she herself was not a good parent, or her actions resulted in the death of her child, which caused a psychotic break.

“We believe another significant part of her delusion is the fairy tale _Hansel and Gretel_. She perceives herself as the witch in the story who discovers the children, but unlike the story, the UnSub does not want to murder the children she abducts based off evidence of attempted resuscitation in the first victims. She is most likely unarmed, but we would advise not to approach her alone as she is extremely unstable and unpredictable. Thank you.”

* * *

After delivering the profile, the Shawnee police murmured among themselves before dispersing. Sheriff Bobby stood awkwardly in the corner, waiting for his colleagues to leave before walking towards the team, his mouth set.

“Lab results are back on the breadcrumbs,” he informed them.

“And?” Hotch prompted.

Bobby let out a long, uneasy exhale. “DNA in the breadcrumbs matches Jane Foster.”

“Did Jane make the breadcrumbs for the UnSub?” JJ wondered aloud.

“No,” Bobby corrected, “she _was_ the breadcrumbs.”

* * *

Matthew and Lila spoke to each other while the woman was away. They talked about their families, their friends--anything to distract them from the situation at hand. At the moment, they were sitting on their respective sides of the wall, picking halfheartedly at sandwiches the woman had made for them.

“My daddy probably misses me,” Lila said forlornly. “He gets sad a lot.”

Matthew nodded. “My mommy gets sad without me,” he sympathized. “She says I cheer her up a lot.”

“I miss him,” Lila whimpered. “I miss my daddy.”

Matthew felt tears stream down his cheeks, and he tried to grasp Lila’s hand, but they were too far apart. So instead, the two of them sat in silence, wrapped in their memories of sad mommies and daddies who couldn’t cheer up without them.

A soft creaking from upstairs announced the woman’s arrival. The children scurried back to their rooms, clutching their sandwiches and pressing their backs to the wall. They held their breath as the woman walked down the stairs and opened the door, giving them both a wide smile.

“Hello, my sweets,” she cooed. “I’ve brought you both a treat.” The woman stepped fully into the basement, closing the door behind her. Matthew could see a brown paper bag in one of her hands.

“What is it?” he asked.

The woman rustled through the bag before pulling out a cookie. “Dessert.” She disappeared behind the wall to check on Lila, and Matthew scooted as close as he could get to the corner to listen in on their conversation.

“Don’t you want a cookie, dear?”

“No, thank you.”

Silence.

“‘No, thank you’?”

“I’m okay, I’m full. I don’t want dessert.”

“‘No, thank you’?” the woman repeated, her voice dangerously low.

Matthew held his breath as a shuffling sound came from the other room, then a crash. He covered his mouth to stifle his breathing as the noise rose in volume. There were sounds of a struggle, and Lila was crying, but Matthew couldn’t see what was going on. All he could hear was the woman’s calm voice among the chaos.

“Eat the cookie. Come on, now, eat it. I said,” she growled, her voice rising, “ _eat it_!”

Lila did not respond. Instead, she let out a garbled, choking noise, and Matthew couldn’t hide any longer. He moved as far as his tether would allow, and what he saw horrified him.

Lila was coughing more frantically, the gurgling noises punctuated by screams. Matthew could see her legs thrashing underneath the woman, who was on her knees. The struggle continued, and Matthew felt his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. He shouted-- “Stop! _Stop!_ Stop it, she doesn’t want it! _Lila!”_ \--but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Eventually, the noise decreased.

And then stopped.

The world stilled.

And sped up again.

The woman was the one screaming now. Matthew was shocked at the sudden explosion and scurried back to his corner, curling in a ball and covering his ears. He could not block out the sounds of the woman wailing. He could not block out the sound of her pounding on Lila’s chest, pumping her stomach. He could not block out the long, long wail, and the sobbing that came after.

Time passed. Matthew didn’t know how much. What had happened? He didn't know. After a few minutes, when the cries died down, Matthew ventured back to the wall and stuck his head in the opening. “Lila?” he whispered.

Lila was on the ground, and she wasn’t moving. The woman was in the other corner, her knees tucked to her chest, rocking slowly, mumbling quietly.

“... _she was a wicked witch who was lying in wait there for children_ ,” the woman was saying. “ _She had built her house of bread only in order to lure them to her._ ”

She stopped, then lifted her gaze from the ground to the boy in front of her. Slowly, the woman got to her feet, tripped over Lila’s body, and crouched beside Matthew, who had pressed himself against the wall in fear. She took his chin in her hand and lifted his head, forcing Matthew to look in her wild, glazed eyes.

The reciting continued. “ _And if she captured one_ ,” the woman went on, “ _she would kill him, cook him, and eat him; and for her that was a day to celebrate._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it a bad time to say "you are what you eat"?


	7. Chapter 7

The whiteboard was a myriad of scribbles in various colors and handwritings: 

_VICS: M. THATCHER (DECEASED); S. WEBER (DECEASED); J. FOSTER (DECEASED?); T. GARRET; A. REAGAN; L. ANDERSON; M. PARK._ Colored tabs marked their last known locations on a large map of Shawnee. The childrens’ photographs were lined up neatly at the top of the board; everyone was smiling. It felt wrong.

_WEBER/THATCHER COD: CHOKING. LIGATURE MARKS ON 1 WRIST. TOX NEG. BRUISING ON MIDSECTION CONSISTENT W/ HEIMLICH/CPR. WEBER/THATCHER POSED. COVERED._ Here, crime scene photos of the two children.

_BREADCRUMBS, FLOUR MATCH DNA OF J. FOSTER (VIC 3) REMAINS._ Next to this inscription, rewritten in large, red letters, was the letter the UnSub had sent: _YOU DONT UNDERSTAND YOU DONT TAKE CARE OF THEM I AM THE WITCH NOT THAT WITCH EVERYONE THOUGHT WRONG YOU DONT DESERVE HER NOW YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE HIM IN MY WOODS I WANTED HIM BACK I HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE_.

Taped to a corner of the board was the typed-up profile, and scrawled underneath: _HANSEL-GRETEL CONNECTION?_

“Well, you’ve been busy,” Rossi remarked as he strolled into the conference room, a tray of coffees in one hand and a file in the other. He took a seat next to Emily at the round table and slid over one of the steaming cups. She nodded in gratitude and gestured to Reid, who was staring at the whiteboard, gnawing absentmindedly on a marker and hardly acknowledging his colleagues’ presence. 

“He’s been like this the past half hour,” she whispered.

Rossi gave a nonchalant shrug and held up one of the coffees. “Perhaps my offering will snap him out of his reverie,” he suggested. He stood up, drinks in hand, and moved to stand next to Reid, who was mumbling silently to himself.

“Hey, kid,” Rossi called, giving him a tap on the shoulder. The smell of coffee must have jolted Reid from his stupor, because he turned around. Rossi offered the cup. “Need a fix?”

“Thanks,” Reid murmured, accepting the coffee. He gestured to the board in front of him. “I’m not getting anywhere.”

“We haven’t got much,” Rossi agreed, “except for our profile.”

“Hotch and JJ are asking around town,” Emily spoke up from where she was sitting at the table. “They’re visiting bakers, store owners, that crowd. My guess is that someone knows something; we just have to be patient.”

“How _can_ we be patient,” Reid sighed, “when there are children missing? I just feel like we should be doing something.”

“It ain’t easy being left behind,” Rossi sympathized, “but every officer in Shawnee is canvassing the woods. In the meantime,” he added, “why do you think Jane Foster’s remains were found in those breadcrumbs?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Reid explained, unscrewing the cap off a marker. “It would make sense if Jane was making the bread, but being _in_ the bread is completely different--Joe Metheny, for example, sold his victims as burgers, but that’s organized behavior. Our UnSub clearly has no rational thoughts.”

“Plus,” Emily piped up, “all we got were breadcrumbs. We don’t even know what part of Jane Foster was in that stuff. For all we know, she could still be alive.”

“So,” Rossi thought aloud, “organized behavior from a disorganized, irrational UnSub on a psychotic break. What are the reasons for putting victims into food?”

“Giving it to people,” Emily answered, “but this UnSub doesn’t care about how other people feel about her murders. Serving your victims as food gives a sense of power.”

“She doesn’t have anyone to feed the bread to, also,” Reid pointed out.

“Except herself,” Rossi murmured. He straightened. “Wait a minute. She makes bread out of her victims like the witch in the fairy tale. What does the witch do with the bread? What behavior could be considered organized and disorganized?”

Reid and Emily spoke together, the realization hitting them at the same time: “Cannibalism.”

* * *

The SUV pulled up next to a large building on the street corner labeled _Nellie’s Market_. Hotch and JJ got out of the car and entered the market, then made their way to a check-out counter, where a young man was bagging groceries. His name tag read _Miles_.

“May we speak to you for a minute?” JJ asked, drumming her fingers on the counter.

“Why? Who are you?”

JJ pulled out her badge. “I’m here to ask about a woman who came in within the last week.”

“That’s difficult, ma’am,” Miles replied with a shake of his head, “a lot of people come here.”

“She would’ve been alone,” Hotch prompted. “Anxious, flighty, maybe talking to herself. She might have stolen something--flour, or melted chocolate.”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t recall,” Miles apologized.

“I remember,” a voice called from another checkout counter. A freckled girl with curly hair waved the agents over. “My name’s Carol.”

“What do you remember, Carol?” JJ asked.

“A woman came in some days ago,” Carol explained. “She was real nervous, pushing ‘round a cart but not buying anything. She was talkin’ to herself--or some invisible person, I dunno. Security had to be called ‘cause she tried to take off with a thing of sugar.”

“Do you think you could describe this woman?” Hotch questioned.

Carol shrugged. “White lady. Dark hair. Messy like she didn’t brush it. Short like she cut it herself. She was old, but not old-old, y’know?”

“Could you give this description to a sketch artist?”

“Well, sure, I guess. There’s one more thing,” Carol added, her brow furrowed.

“What?”

“During the time she was talking, I kept hearing a name--Dennis, or David, or somethin’ like that. She was talkin’ to him, maybe, and kept saying that the ‘children needed fattening’, or some weird stuff like that. I dunno. I just thought she was off her rocker.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” JJ thanked her.

Hotch turned to leave. “We're going to need access to your security footage,” he ordered. “In the meantime, come with us.”

* * *

The woman had not spoken to Matthew since what happened. He was confused and scared. Overnight, Lila had disappeared, leaving Matthew alone in the basement, his arm loosely pinned to the wall, the coldness of the tile seeping through his pants. The woman was coming down to the basement less and less often, only sliding cheese-and-tomato sandwiches and water bottles in his direction before scurrying back upstairs. Matthew had lost track of time. How long had it been since he got into her car? It seemed like forever ago since Uncle Joe pushed him out the door. For some reason, Matthew preferred his anger to this.

The telltale creaking signaled the woman’s entrance to the basement. Matthew scooted against the wall, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The woman stooped down and placed a few unwrapped caramels at his feet.

“What’s going on?” Matthew ventured.

No response. Just the candies being nudged closer. The woman’s face remained impassive.

“I wanna go, I want my mom,” Matthew tried again.

“Your mommy’s gone.” The woman’s croak was barely audible. “Remember? She left you in the woods. But Daddy didn’t like it.”

Matthew didn’t know what she was talking about. He said nothing, and the woman continued: “You and Gretel were left in my woods, and ate my cottage, so I took you in, like a good mother does. You need fattening,” she added, pushing the caramels closer.

Hesitantly, Matthew picked one up. He stuck it in his mouth, and asked between chews: “Who is Gretel?”

“I told you,” the woman murmured, almost exasperatedly, “she was with you. You and her. Eating my house.”

“Gretel’s not real,” Matthew replied, “she’s just a fairy-tale.”

“She was here yesterday.” The woman’s face suddenly broke into a devilish grin. “Right, Devon?”

“Devon?” Matthew whispered, swallowing the caramel.

“Hansel,” the woman corrected herself. “Devon’s upstairs. I have to go to him because it’s not safe.”

“My name is Matthew,” Matthew squeaked. The woman paid no mind; she simply continued to grin and put the sticky caramels in his hand.

“Fattening up,” she repeated. “They think it’s wrong. Devon’s upstairs. Kiddies are here. One kiddy.”

Matthew was scared now, more scared than he had been since he came. The woman was unnerving, and her wide grin displayed crooked, broken teeth.

“Where did Lila go?” Matthew asked feebly.

The woman gave a little giggle.

“The girl,” Matthew pressed, “where is she?”

“The girlie-kiddy,” the woman cackled, “The girlie-kiddy didn’t want to fatten. That’s not how it goes. So I took her, and I boiled her, and put her in your mouth.” With that, she stood up, humming quietly, and left the basement.

Matthew felt his breathing pick up. He glanced down at the caramels in his hand, and launched them across the room as far as he could throw. Then he pressed his face to the cool wall and gagged, tears spilling down his cheeks, feeling tired, hungry, and utterly terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to write the first bit, I googled "killers who put people into food", "is cannibalism organized", and "did people bake people they killed how and why". Mildly concerning? I assure you, Search History, it's for educational purposes only.


	8. Chapter 8

In a small backroom of Nellie’s Market, Hotch pulled out his phone and dialed JJ. “Have you got the sketch artist?”

“ _Carol’s with him now,_ ” JJ confirmed from the station. “ _Is Morgan with you?_ ”

“I’m here,” Morgan announced, jogging into the backroom where Hotch sat with Miles. The two of them were combing through video footage, trying to look for the woman Carol had identified. Miles clicked through the feed, and shook his head in dismay.

“It’s far back,” he apologized. “It’s gonna take a while.”

“No, it won’t,” Morgan replied, pulling out his phone. After dialing, he placed it on the table.

“ _Green for go!_ ” Garcia chirped.

“Hey, Garcia, you’re on speaker,” Morgan greeted her. “I’m sending you a video feed from Nellie’s Market. I need you to run it through facial recognition based on the sketch JJ gave you.”

“ _Revving up now!_ ” Garcia assured him. “ _I_ _’ll hit you when I get something._ ” The line clicked.

“JJ, are you at the station?” Hotch asked his own phone.

“ _Yeah, I’ve got Rossi, Reid, and Emily with me._ ”

“Okay, I want Rossi and Emily to review the victimology,” Hotch ordered. “JJ, you and Reid go over the evidence again--maybe the UnSub left a clue without knowing it.”

“ _On it_ ,” Reid’s voice buzzed back. JJ hung up the phone, and Hotch sat back in his chair. Morgan rapped his fingers on the edge of the table.

“Now what?” he asked.

Hotch shook his head solemnly. “Now we wait for Garcia.”

* * *

“What do all these kids have in common?” Rossi asked.

“They’re all blond, ages 7-10, with rough home lives,” Emily answered automatically. “We already went through victimology, Rossi.”

“Actually, here’s something interesting,” JJ piped up from where she was flipping through files. “Max Thatcher was kidnapped during one of his mother’s episodes, according to neighbors. Sarah Weber’s parents had both just left for work. Jane Foster’s abduction only happened a day after she ran away from her foster home.”

Rossi took a stack of files and continued: “Tommy Garret was walking home from summer camp. Andrew Reagan was sitting outside while the rest of the family was filming a video. Lila Anderson was at the park by herself because her father couldn’t get out of bed--”

“--and Matthew Park was being abused by his uncle moments before being kidnapped,” Emily finished. She sat back. “It can’t be a coincidence that all these children went missing after some sort of bad experience at home.”

“Which means our UnSub knows these families and their habits,” Rossi concluded.

As if on cue, JJ’s phone buzzed on the table. She answered it: “What’ve you got, Garcia?”

“ _I have one match from the surveillance camera,_ ” Garcia replied excitedly. “ _A woman was indeed at Nellie’s Market and was taken out by security. I scanned her face on ViCAP, and nothing’s coming up.”_

“Ping in Hotch and Morgan,” Rossi suggested. “They can help narrow the search.”

There was the sound of a keyboard being abused over the line, then Morgan’s voice spoke through the feed: “ _Whatcha got, Baby Girl?_ ”

“ _I’ve got everyone on the line and my computer’s fired up!_ ” Garcia exclaimed. JJ could hear her bouncing over the phone. “ _Hit me, hit me, hit me!_ ”

“Our woman’s divorced,” Rossi began. “Single. Lives on the outskirts of Shawnee.”

Typing. _“Not enough, I need more._ ”

“She’s got a history of mental illness--schizophrenia, paranoia, maybe she even stayed in a hospital for some time,” Hotch added.

“ _Getting closer, I’ve got 46 names, but I need more,_ ” Garcia informed them.

“She has a child, but not anymore,” JJ said. “He most likely died young.”

“ _Sadly, that only rules out 3 names._ ”

“Look into autopsy records,” Reid suggested, “the cause of death was most likely asphyxiation, strangulation, or choking.”

“ _Thank you, my Boy Wonder! 7 names._ ”

“She won’t have a job,” Emily explained, “or a husband. Any divorces after the child’s death?”

_“Oh, my. No, no, go back,_ ” Garcia sighed, _“four were divorced after the death, two were already unmarried, and one woman has no father listed on the birth certificate._ ”

“How about abusive households?” Morgan asked. “Look for homes with multiple complaints against them for noise, neglect, or abuse.”

“ _Boom! Three names. Last words, last words!_ ”

“It might be a stretch,” Rossi admitted, “but do any of the women have a history in the baking industry?”

“ _Oh, my goodness._ ”

“Who is it, Garcia?” Hotch prompted.

“ _I’ve got bingo--Olivia White, age 51, was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in her twenties and had a child, Devon, a decade later. She worked in a candy factory but was fired after her husband divorced her. She had attempted suicide when Devon was four, doctors believe she also suffered from postpartum depression after a traumatic childbirth. Later--oh, goodness. Later,_ ” Garcia took a deep breath and exhaled. “ _Later, Devon had died from choking on a pill bottle. EMT’s confirmed him DOA. Apparently during all this, Olivia was out looking for work.”_

“When did Devon die?” Emily asked.

“ _About three months ago. He was nine._ ”

“Three months, right when the killings started,” Rossi recalled. “Devon’s death was the trigger. It probably spurred a psychological break.”

“Any known location?” Morgan pressed.

“ _There’s the home she lived in pre-divorce and apparently currently lives in now, sans the husband. There’s a second cabin under Devon’s name in the woods, apparently no one lives there right now._ ”

“Send the addresses,” Hotch ordered.

“ _I’ve got one more thing that’s probably important!”_

“What?”

“ _According to the ex-husband’s Facebook, before the divorce, Olivia volunteered at the mall bookstore. Every Saturday, she would read fairy-tales to the children. And before you ask, I’m cross-checking, and yes, yes! Every single family visited that mall within the past year on these days.”_

“That’s how she met the families,” Rossi concluded.

“Thanks, Baby Girl,” Morgan rushed, “send us the addresses.”

“ _On your phones now!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but the next bit is the climax! But alas, the story is starting to come to an end. I've had a lot of fun with this first case fic, and I definitely want to do more with CM in the future. I'm planning on writing things like character studies, introspections, or gapfills, so any suggestions are gladly accepted!  
> That being said, thanks for sticking around! I hope you've enjoyed the case so far, and I hope you'll stay for the ending. I'm on summer break officially, so expect the next chapters to be up soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question: are there any additional tags I should add? All I've got is "case fic" and I don't know if any more apply. Anyway--enjoy the second-to-last-chapter!

Matthew is hungry. He’s so hungry.

He doesn’t know it, but it has been a week since he was kidnapped by Olivia White, and it has been three days since Lila’s death. The plates of food have diminished. The number of bottles of water rolled under the door have grown less frequent. If Olivia White remembers, Matthew will eat and drink once a day--twice, if he’s lucky enough.

It feels like a millennia ago since he last saw his mom, but Matthew’s too tired to care. He can feel his stomach cramp painfully at regular intervals during the day. His dry tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. How much longer can he last? He remembers vaguely about something his teacher said about a few weeks before his body gives in to starvation.

Matthew giggles a little bit to himself, because _school_ is just so foreign to him now. So is a nice bed. A bathroom. He would even love to hear Uncle Joe’s drunken screaming. Matthew feels like a _child_ , and even though eight-year-olds love to feel grown up, he wants nothing more than a hug from his mother.

He’s jerked out of this reminiscing by a sharp clatter. The woman enters the room, an empty plate in one hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed. The woman places the plate in front of Matthew and sits in front of him. “Here you go,” she whispers.

“It’s empty,” Matthew replies after a pause.

“Eat, eat, eat,” the woman coos, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Matthew’s ear. The boy stays where he is, stiff with fear, tears threatening to spill over. The gesture is robotic, but it reminds him of his mother, and the tears fall.

“Eat, eat,” the woman repeats, taking the plate and putting it in Matthew’s lap.

“I can’t eat,” Matthew insists, “my tummy hurts and there’s no food.”

The woman’s eyes harden. An animalistic growl escapes her throat, and she presses the plate firmer against Matthew’s legs. He takes the empty dish from her and sniffles. Their eyes lock.

And then suddenly, the woman is on top of him and holding her hands to his throat. Matthew lets out a cut-off shriek and the plate clatters to the floor. He thrashes his limbs, and the woman lets out an unintelligible screech.

The noise increases when both of them hear a loud banging coming from upstairs. Through the walls, Matthew can hear someone: “ _Olivia White, FBI!_ ”

The woman--Olivia White, apparently--loosens her grip, but her hands are still firmly wrapped around Matthew’s neck. He sucks in a few breaths before her can hear the door burst open and multiple people rush into the cottage.

“Help!” he croaks feebly.

It’s something; Matthew spots a blond woman coming down the stairs and noticing him. “Down here!” she shouts. The new woman hurries over, other agents flooding the room in her wake. Their guns are drawn. Matthew’s never seen a gun before and he cries because everything is happening all at once.

“Olivia White,” the man from the door says, “let go of the boy.”

“Devon’s mine,” Olivia hisses, whipping around to face the agents, “you can’t take him from me!”

“His name is Matthew,” the woman says.

“No!” the woman brings one hand to her face and smacks herself. “No, _no, no!_ ”

“Olivia,” the woman calls, tucking her weapon into her holster. “We know what happened to Devon.”

Matthew isn’t sure whether or not Olivia is paying attention. She’s too busy beating the side of her head and screaming: “You _gave_ him to me! You _gave_ him to _me_!”

“We did,” another agent agrees, putting away his gun as well. “We gave him to you because we knew we couldn’t take care of him.”

“You couldn’t,” Olivia growls, “you were bad. _I_ was bad!” she tucks into herself, letting go of Matthew, who jerks away from her and scoots as far as the leather restraint will allow. He makes eye contact with the woman, who gives him a nod. It’s soothing.

Olivia is shrieking and slamming her back into the wall. Two of the agents hurry forward and grab her arms. She struggles, but stops suddenly, sitting straight up and sniffling. Her eyes are wild, but glazed. She stars to mumble to herself.

“She’s dissociating,” the agent who put away his weapon informs the group. The others take Olivia upstairs, and she follows them, her feet dragging.

Matthew is shocked into silence for a moment. Then he can’t help but cry. He shakes with sobs, and in the back of his mind he feels embarrassed, but he can’t help himself. The blond woman rushes forward and wraps her arms around him. “You’re okay,” she soothes, “it’s over, it’s over now.”

Matthew’s sobs turn into hiccuping gasps, and the woman looks to the remaining agents. “Does anyone have something I can free him with?”

One of the agents pulls a knife from his pocket and hands it to her. Still rubbing his back, the woman accepts the blade and turns to Matthew. “I need you to stay still, okay?” she whispers.

Matthew nods shakily. The woman takes the knife and carefully saws through the restraint. After a while, it comes free, and Matthew tucks his wrist protectively to his chest as the woman gives him another hug.

“EMT’s are a minute out,” someone says. Matthew doesn’t know who, because his face is buried in the woman’s shoulder. She’s still calming him, holding him against her, and the two of them are rocking gently. It feels like his mother, and Matthew lets out a little sob because he’s seeing his own mother again. And Uncle Joe, who he never thought he would feel good about.

“You’re safe now,” the woman repeats, squeezing him gently as they release each other. Her eyes are glistening. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s over.”

Matthew wipes his eyes, then looks around the room. There’s still someone who’s missing. Maybe the woman knows, so he asks her: “Where’s Lila?”

* * *

“Where’s Lila?” Matthew mumbles from where he is tucked against JJ’s shoulder. JJ looks up and makes eye contact with Hotch, who presses his lips together and gives a small shake of the head: most likely, Lila is dead. He brings his radio to his mouth. 

“We’ve got White and Matthew Park,” he says into the mic.

Morgan’s voice buzzes over the feed. “ _We’re at the house. It’s all clear_ ,” he informs them. “ _I_ _t doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for months._ ”

Hotch clips the radio back into place and holsters his gun. He’s about to speak when Bobby re-enters the room, looking grim. “I think you need to see this.”

* * *

“EMT’s are a minute out,” Bobby tells Reid. Both of them leave the room and edge along the hallway, which is dark save for their flashlight beams. Reid spots a closed-off room waiting for them at the end of the hall, dim orange light spilling into the hallway from underneath the door. There’s a small thrumming coming from inside the walls. Next to him, Bobby draws his gun.

“On three,” he mouths, and Reid nods his head in agreement. He takes out his own pistol and the two of them stand on either side of the door. Bobby nods: one, two…

Reid tests the door. It’s unlocked; he throws it open and Bobby leads. Reid’s about to follow him in with his gun drawn, but then the sheriff gives a long whistle and stops. “My God," he murmurs. Reid pokes his head into the room. He puts away his weapon and shines the flashlight pas Bobby, who puts a hand on his hip.

“I need to call forensics,” he says, leaving the room. Reid can hear him beckoning the other agents and officers in the house. He takes a nitrile glove out of his pocket and uses it to flip the light on.

The room is a dank cellar, and a thick, sweet smell permeates the air. Reid feels nauseous, but he swallows and examines the shelves. The room is lined wall-to-wall with sweets; moldy lollipops litter the ground, jars of candies and cookies fill the shelves. Tucked away into the corner is a minifridge, but it isn’t plugged in. In the center of the room stands a large, rickety stove. The gas is on. A small flame flickers underneath a single metal pot, bubbling with some unknown liquid that sticks to the side of the pan.

Hotch and a Shawnee officer enter the room and stop when they see all the candy. Reid ignores their presence when he notices a small pink bundle sticking out of the fridge. He puts the glove on and opens the door all the way. Behind him, Hotch takes in a sharp breath.

Lila Anderson has been contorted to fit in the small space. She is not wearing a shirt; instead, multiple articles of clothing cover her body. Reid recognizes Tommy Garret’s green sweater and Jane Foster’s purple skirt. He sifts through the clothes, careful not to jostle the scene too much. The list of increases: there’s Max Thatcher’s baseball cap. Sarah Weber’s dress. Andrew Reagan’s pants. A brown button-up Reid has never seen. The fridge is packed with the shirts, socks, dresses, and shoes of missing children.

“Where are the bodies?” the Shawnee officer whispers from where she’s standing next to Hotch.

Hotch bends down, picks up a crushed slab of chocolate, and holds it up to the light. “I think this is it,” he murmurs solemnly. The officer presses a hand to her mouth and leaves the room. Hotch follows, and Reid is alone in the cellar. 

He turns off the light but doesn’t leave. Instead, he looks down at the broken candy that lays shattered on the ground like stained glass.

_Gretel shook out her apron, scattering pearls and precious stones across the room, and Hansel added to them by throwing one handful after the other from his pockets._

If he squints, Reid can see his distorted reflection staring back at him. It’s almost spooky.

_Now all their cares were at an end, and they lived happily ever after_.

The flames continue to lick against the side of the pot. They bathe the surrounding shelves in a pulsating, orange glow.

_My tale is done; a mouse has run._

Reid runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut.

_And whoever catches it can make for himself from it a large, large fur cap._

He leaves the cottage.


	10. Chapter 10

The jet was silent for most of the flight back to Quantico. JJ rubbed her eyes and stood up to pour a cup of coffee. As the machine hummed, she watched the rest of her team curled up in their chairs; some asleep, some staring off into space or fiddling with their electronics. JJ pulled out her own phone to shoot Will a text: _Landing soon. ETA 1 hour._

She got a response almost immediately: _I’ll wait up. Hungry?_

 _Starving_ , she replied, tucking her phone back into her pocket. JJ made her way back to her chair, where Morgan and Emily were chatting quietly.

“It just surprises me, every time,” Emily was saying. “I understand what led to the psychotic break, but I’m still confused as to the whole _Hansel and Gretel_ thing.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to us,” Morgan explained, “it just has to make sense to the UnSub.”

JJ took a sip of her coffee, leaning back in her chair as Morgan and Emily settled into silence. Everyone was too tired to carry on a full conversation. The only noise was the soft music that filtered through Morgan’s headphones, and the occasional squeak of someone adjusting in their seat. It was quiet again, until:

“Olivia White’s schizophrenia didn’t cause her psychotic break.”

JJ turned around to see Reid sitting up on the jet couch, a thick book opened on his lap. He fiddled with the page corners before continuing. “It played a role, yes, but based on the rest of White’s history, her psychosis most likely stemmed from the postpartum depression, failed suicide attempt, and increasing attachment to her son, whom later died. It’s likely that these could arguably be considered the bigger factors.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “Reid, I didn’t mean--”

“Didn’t you?” Reid shifted uncomfortably before turning back down to his book.

“Kid,” Morgan tried, “she really didn’t. That’s not fair.”

Reid sighed loudly before gripping a fistful of his hair. “You’re right, it’s not fair,” he said curtly. His words are clipped. Reid’s not actually mad at Emily; JJ knows it’s just the stress of the case finally getting to him. She had seen it a few times before.

“I’ve got this,” she mouthed to Morgan and Emily before taking her bag and moving to the couch. Reid averted her gaze, and instead curled his legs tighter together. JJ took the hand that was groping at his hair and held it in her own. “Spence,” she coaxed.

“Schizophrenia doesn’t turn you into a serial killer,” Reid muttered. He shifted and fumbled with the page of the book.

“We know,” JJ said, rubbing her thumb over his hand soothingly.

“And _Hansel and Gretel_ is pretty random,” Reid added, relaxing a little. “Most schizophrenic delusions aren’t this organized and centered. It’s likely that Olivia’s brain found that fairy tale amongst her memories and totally fixated on it. She read fairy tales at the mall for kids, and it might have been a favorite. If you noticed, Olivia showed slightly autistic behaviors such as the stimming--which are self-soothing motions--and the repetition of words. Her derealization could have revolved around a childhood-and-slash-or-adult special interest. It could even be a form of dissociative regression.”

JJ nodded and continued to rub his hands. It seemed to be grounding; the tension in his body was easing. JJ took his as a sign to scoot closer, so she moved forward an inch and pressed a palm to Reid’s upper back. He quieted, and--to JJ’s surprise--melted into the touch. She pushed his head gently onto her shoulder.

“M’sorry,” Reid said softly.

“Spence,” JJ chuckled, shaking her head. “You don’t--don’t be.”

“Okay.” And they stayed like that until the wheels touched the ground.

* * *

It was pitch black when JJ got home. She climbed up the stairs and allowed herself a wide yawn before turning the key in the lock. She shuffled over the threshold, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

It didn’t last, though. The soft bumping of Henry’s excited footsteps brought her back into wide-awake mode.

“Hey!” JJ laughed as Henry launched himself into her arms with an excited squeal. She squeezed him tight before placing him on the ground. “I missed you _so much_!”

“Welcome back,” Will called from where he stood at the end of the hallway. JJ smiled at him before lifting Henry back onto her hip, pressing her lips on his head. The three of them made their way to the kitchen, where steaming cups of cocoa sat on the table.

“You guys,” JJ chuckled. “Is this my coming-home party?”

Henry nodded vigorously and jumped down from her arms. He scooted into a chair and dragged a mug towards himself. Will pushed another one over to JJ and leaned against the counter. “Tough?”

“You have no idea,” she sighed.

“Always the kids, ain’t it?”

JJ nodded solemnly. A tear slipped down her cheek. Will reached over to brush it away. “You did all you could,” he reminded her, “and you helped a lotta people. Lotta kids. Right?”

“Yeah.”

They stood like that, sipping their drinks until Henry broke the silence: “Can I have a cookie?”

“Magic word?” JJ prompted.

“ _Pleeease_!”

“Okay, then.” Henry giggled and bounced over to the cabinet, pulling out a tin of cookies. He offered one up to her.

“Um...no thank you,” JJ said carefully. Henry, blissfully unaware, crammed a cookie into his mouth and grabbed Will’s arm. Will ruffled his hair and glanced at JJ, who walked over and wrapped her arms around the both of them.

“Lotta kids,” Will repeated into her shoulder.

“Lotta kids,” JJ agreed.

“You gave Matthew Park a happy ending. Remember that.”

“Yeah.”

Will released her and bent down to scoop up Henry. He gave her one more smile before taking their son upstairs. JJ stood in the middle of the kitchen, wiping the wet tracks from under her eyes.

Not everyone got what they deserved in the end. Six families might never get closure. But there might be six more families out there, who will tuck their children into bed tonight and exchange their "I love you"s. There might be six more children out there, whose lives were saved today, but they'll never know it.

JJ slowly headed to the doorway and turned off the light. She took a last look around the kitchen-- _her_ kitchen, with a tin of cookies on the table and happy photos of her family decorating the walls. She thought about the Parks, and how they might be sitting in their own kitchen right now. Two safe families. Two safe boys. Rossi always said that helping one family made everything worth it. It made sense now.

“Happy endings,” JJ whispered to herself.

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW!  
> That concludes "The Cottage"! I had a lot of fun with this wacky case fic. I'm so happy for anyone who got past the slow introduction chapters and stuck around 'til the end. Thank you for reading!


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